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It is the time of saying “no.”  You may not visit my home.  I will not smile because you don’t know what else to say.  I will not give you $40 bucks because they took your house away.

(did you hear any apologies here?)

I will say that I am tired and need to go when I am ready. I will give you compassion, but I’m not feeling sorry for you. I will open my home, my ears, my heart, and purse strings when I want to.

I am not your mark anymore.

I’m chasing poems around with ink, talking to myself and writing secrets in the sand.  I write what I need, when I need, and I reserve the right to hoard my treasures.  This bud’s lips will part and speak when it’s damned good and ready, be it gardenia or stinking corpse lily.  Or maybe the roots will rot, the flower will drop and die like some thief on a rope before anyone hears the word.

Either way, I’m cleaning up the crime scene before you can figure out what hit you.